The Hidden Treasure Files

By Martin Herman

This is the second in the current series of Will James mystery novels, this time, the anti- establishment private investigator and his crew are asked to help unravel a mystery that begins in a Brooklyn antique store and ends in the most unlikely of locations.

Every Sunday morning, precisely at 10:30 sharp, there is an auction held in a sparsely furnished back room of Better Times Remembered, a small neighborhood antique store in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. Albert Froog, the owner of the store and self declared auctioneer, personally chooses the items for each week's auction. Generally these items are fairly ordinary but become more interesting because of the back story he is able to weave around them. At times there is even a speck of truth in the story he tells.

At this particular Sunday morning auction, one of the items he offers up is a prohibition era permit in a battered old wooden frame authorizing the manufacture of alcohol. It was one of many items he acquired in an estate purchase. On his inventory sheet he has assigned a value of 50 cents to one dollar for this item because so many similar permits were issued during prohibition and the frame is of little or no value.

Hoping he will wind up with something between 50 cents and a dollar he starts the bidding at $2.00.

To his surprise and amazement two separate people quickly bid the price up to $100,000.

"Who would pay $100,000 for this piece of junk?" Froog asks himself. "What do they know that I don't?"

When the head of the New York Mafia family also shows interest in the item Froog becomes doubly convinced that he really has a hidden treasure on his hands. If you think you know how this will all end you are so very, very wrong.

As with all Will James Mysteries, the numerous twists and turns will keep you reading and guessing until the very last page.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Jun 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781945211041

Book preview

coincidental.

Acknowledgements

When you spend much of your life writing fiction for your own amusement – as I have – it is a true eye-opener when one day you find that others are interested in reading what you have written. My first published novel resulted in such an interesting series of events for me. First, the lovely Lora Chan, single-handedly sold about 100 copies of my first novel, The Jefferson Files to virtually every person she came across. Her conversation starter went from, Do you read mysteries? to Would you like me to ask him to autograph it for you? before most of those nice people even knew it, they had actually purchased a book.

Then there was the book launch party that my daughter, Aimee, threw for me in Brooklyn. Family and friends – many of the friends who attended that evening were my daughter’s – and all who attended were supportive. These wonderful people not only came and listened to what I had to say, but also purchased copies of my novel. Some may even have read it!

Then came the exposure on Amazon.com… it was like being the subject of a worldwide party line.

I am so appreciative of professionals like Carol Lennig, Librarian, Adult Services, Prosser Public Library, Bloomfield, Connecticut, who was the first public librarian to purchase my novel for her library; she placed The Jefferson Files into both Bloomfield, Connecticut Library branches. This is my home town library which made this particular placement so special for me.

Subsequently I was permitted to speak and sign copies of my book as part of a new author’s night at the North Haven, Barnes & Noble store. Thank you, Bianca Bancroft, Community Business Development Manager…

Closely followed by a radio interview on WESU – Middletown, Connecticut – thank you, Donovan Longmore and Yvonne Davis…

And that warm and supportive reception during the Bloomfield Book Fair, where I was permitted to read passages from my novel and sign copies; thank you Marie Robinson…

At the Bloomfield Book Fair I met the hard working and very effective June Hyjek. June was the President of the Connecticut chapter of APSS, a writer’s group, at the time. As an APSS member I had numerous opportunities to present my novel to many new audiences. It was June Hyjek who tenaciously fought the politicians in Hartford and didn’t stop until the Governor declared September 1st, 2015 as Connecticut Author’s Day, proving once again that the right man for a job is more often than not, a woman!

All of that happened just around the time I turned 75. Imagine starting a new chapter in life at 75?

What a treat this all has been.

Fortunately, my first novel, almost 10 years in the making, enjoyed surprisingly steady sales; leading to the writing of this second novel – this time in only 5 months; I have so enjoyed this newest chapter in my life and now that I am hooked, I hope to continue writing for as many more days as I may still have on this earth.

Hopefully, there will be readers who will continue to want to read what I write.

To Alan Pepper…

Alan was one of the principal continuity editors for this book – not because he decided to be a book editor in his latest incarnation but because he is an avid reader and is and has been a very special friend of mine. His thorough and precise notes and follow up questions along with his intelligent suggestions helped make this a far better read than the 13th re-write I first shared with him.

Alan is known throughout the music world and a fair share of New York’s general population as one of the two founders of New York’s legendary The Bottom Line, in the Greenwich Village neighborhood of New York City. For almost 30 years The Bottom Line was the go to venue for new and established performers – the place many first discovered Bruce Springsteen and K D Lang… where Prince appeared as did Dolly Parton and Billie Joel as well as Aaron Copeland. Where Richard Price read from the galleys of his book, Clockers… where Lou Reed recorded the album Live: Take No Prisoners, and where Harry Chapin held his 2000th concert.

It was where I learned to appreciate Handel’s Messiah through the Bottom Line’s creative version, the Downtown Messiah. Where I watched, with more than a few mixed emotions, one of Soupy Sales’s last performances… saw Ringo Starr light up the stage during a rare late night surprise appearance; where I first discovered how great a guitarist Janis Ian was; and where I rediscovered the Jefferson Airplane and David Johansen, (aka Buster Poindexter).

If you enjoy this mystery– as I hope you will – you can thank Alan.

The Hidden Treasure Files by Martin Herman

This is the second in the current series of Will James mystery novels, this time, the antiestablishment private investigator and his crew are asked to help unravel a mystery that begins in a Brooklyn antique store and ends in the most unlikely of locations.

Every Sunday morning, precisely at 10:30 sharp, there is an auction held in a sparsely furnished back room of Better Times Remembered, a small neighborhood antique store in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. Albert Froog, the owner of the store and self declared auctioneer, personally chooses the items for each week’s auction. Generally these items are fairly ordinary but become more interesting because of the back story he is able to weave around them. At times there is even a speck of truth in the story he tells.

At this particular Sunday morning auction, one of the items he offers up is a prohibition era permit in a battered old wooden frame authorizing the manufacture of alcohol. It was one of many items he acquired in an estate purchase. On his inventory sheet he has assigned a value of 50 cents to one dollar for this item because so many similar permits were issued during prohibition and the frame is of little or no value.

Hoping he will wind up with something between 50 cents and a dollar he starts the bidding at $2.00.

To his surprise and amazement two separate people quickly bid the price up to $100,000.

Who would pay $100,000 for this piece of junk? Froog asks himself. What do they know that I don’t?

When the head of the New York Mafia family also shows interest in the item Froog becomes doubly convinced that he really has a hidden treasure on his hands.

If you think you know how this will all end you are so very, very wrong.

As with all Will James Mysteries, the numerous twists and turns will keep you reading and guessing until the very last page.

Part 1

Chapter 1

Better Times Remembered, a neighborhood antique store in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, was opened in the summer of 1940 by Evelyn Zaleson, who lovingly built the business into a major financial success.

She was an avid reader and for her ninth birthday asked for and received a complete set of Compton’s Encyclopedia. Earlier that year, Evelyn had been diagnosed with scarlet fever and not given much of a chance for a complete recovery. The family saved and sacrificed for many months before and after the purchase in order to make her birthday wish come true; her mother, four brothers and three sisters did whatever they could to make her comfortable and when the doctors all but gave up, her family set out to prove the doctors wrong. Their love and attention helped move her almost completely back to better health. Meanwhile, Evelyn read each and every volume of her very own copy of the Compton Encyclopedia, page by page – some sections over and over again. Through its pages she learned about the world and much of what it had to offer. Her Compton education served her well for the rest of her life. The many facts she retained helped her to establish her store’s reputation for more interesting antiques. She used her knowledge of history and geography and developed a lifelong interest in various kinds of memorabilia and popular types of collectibles. Eventually, she developed an ability to buy and sell truly unique items.

Evelyn also had a natural talent for creating interesting window and in-store displays that seemed to spark an I must have that reaction from area shoppers. But the real secret of the store’s success was how universally pleasant the experience was for buyers and browsers – as well as those who just came in out of the rain.

Each and everyone who entered the store was treated with the same level of courtesy and personalized attention. From the fresh pot of coffee, to plates of freshly baked cookies, and the information – freely shared. If Evelyn didn’t know the answer to a question she said so, and then did the research and quickly reported back.

When Evelyn’s daughter, Mary Froog, took over the day to day operations, she built upon her mother’s love for the business and the shopping experience offered to all. The store continued to prosper until Mary was diagnosed with a terminal illness. She tried to keep the store going but by the time she died and her son, Albert, inherited it, the business was a financial mess and little more than a tax loss against the rest of the family estate.

Albert Froog refused to have anything to do with the business while his mother was still alive but after she passed away and he learned that his entire inheritance would be given to charity if he abandoned the store, he channeled his energies to make it profitable or at the very least, bring it to a break-even point.

Unlike his mother and grandmother, Albert was not what could be described as a people person. He seemed to be cold and uninterested in anyone but himself; gave off signs of being above those with whom he had to deal; but at the heart of his anti-social behavior was the basic fact that he was painfully shy. The few who knew him best understood that his seemingly out of control temper, rudeness and generally unpleasant outer layer was just a well-rehearsed act.

He moved the basic business model from welcoming browsers towards a less personal internet and mail order business. He was one of the first antique dealers to make the most of the enormous reach of the internet and began buying and selling entire collections throughout the globe – often without seeing or directly speaking with either the people he bought from or sold to.

Froog’s anti-social behavior knew few limitations – he treated customers and suppliers as well as employees with equal disdain. As a result, he quickly went through a series of clerk/assistants, each of whom quit because of the verbally abusive way he treated them. It wasn’t always what he said, more about how he said it, especially when customers were around. One employee walked outside to take a cigarette break less than half an hour after he began work on his first day and never returned – leaving his coat and hat behind.

Finally the fates smiled down and Froog found Elizabeth Hillsonrat, an undocumented Russian refugee – or more accurately, Elizabeth Hillsonrat found Froog. Elizabeth had been in and out of tight situations for most of her forty years. The past few years, in particular, had been all too challenging and personally draining – but somehow she survived. Elizabeth always survived. All she wanted now was little or no pressure – personally… professionally… period! She felt drained and decided that for her own sanity; at this point in time she needed to drastically simplify her life.

Now, as always, she had to earn enough to pay her bills but since she lived modestly, the need for money did not have to dictate what she did or where she did it. The deciding factor at this time in her life was to work at something that was simple, uncomplicated, and undemanding. She was on such a job, cleaning apartments for a slum landlord when she read the small space ad that Froog had placed in the Village Voice newspaper. She read the ad through several times and thought, this could be just what she needed.

WANTED: ONE WITH STRONG WORK ETHIC

AND WILLINGNESS TO WORK HARD ABLE TO TAKE ORDERS

AND

LEAVE ALL PERSONAL BUSINESS AT HOME

OWNER IS SMART AND CAPABLE OF MAKING ALL DECISIONS

AND IS NOT LOOKING FOR AN ADVISOR

– WE NEED SOMEONE TO DO THE WORK COMPLAINERS NEED NOT APPLY REPLY TO BOX 194, C/O THE VOICE

According to the rate card printed at the bottom of the page, ‘56 words for 56 days for $56.00’ –300 characters with spaces, maximum - additional characters - letters, numbers, spaces, or punctuation marks, will be charged at 25 cents each’, was the paper’s special, no frills bargain rate. She looked through the ad again - it was exactly 56 words and 300 characters. We either have a really precise person here or one of the cheapest S.O.B.’s in town, she thought.

After her brief interview with Froog she was convinced that this was precisely what she needed at this time in her life. He asked her only one question – Did you come here today to work or to play? She told him, in broken English, that she needed the job and came here to work. Good, he said, pointing to a pile of assorted objects behind the counter, throw your coat over there, and get to work.

He walked away from the conversation feeling good that she never asked him how much the job pays; she walked away from the same conversation feeling even better that he never asked for her social security card or to see her documentation as a legal alien.

For years, Elizabeth had successfully outsmarted the Russian Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, or as it was better known, the KGB, and so she knew she would have no problem dealing with the likes of an Albert Froog. And, she thought, if she was wrong and he became a problem, she could always cut his arms or anything else off – after all, that had worked for her before.

Elizabeth quickly figured out that Froog had little patience for, and even less interest in, the day to day minutia of running a neighborhood store and volunteered to meet, greet, and service the customers; keep the store clean and neat, keep track of the inventory, use the tools Froog provided to research and help value whatever he chose to purchase; and keep the books – both sets of books - the one for the tax people and the real one that he kept in his safe in the back of the store. Elizabeth agreed to be paid off the books… both sets of books.

She was paid less than minimum wage which she knew could not support even her modest living expenses but that didn’t matter because she was confident that she could quickly find ways to augment the cash in her weekly pay envelope. It didn’t take long for her to figure out how to stuff small items such as ceramic figurines or vintage toys or collectibles from the store’s vast inventory into a pocket she had sown into an inside panel of her dress and sell them on Saturdays at a flea market near her small apartment in Freehold, New Jersey.

Chapter 2

About four months later…

Every Sunday morning, rain or shine, promptly at 10:30 A.M., Albert Froog held an auction in a back room behind the store. It was the only time he actively invited customers into the store. These auctions were held to show the lawyer in charge of his mother’s estate that he was trying new ways to grow the customer base. He aggressively touted the event as an opportunity to purchase a selected hidden treasure at a bargain price, although he privately referred to it as an easy way to palm off meaningless crap.

Usually the event attracted one or two local residents, a stray passerby, and a homeless person just seeking a warm, dry place to sit for an hour or so. The only constant, almost every Sunday was Howard Hill. Howard had played guitar in some of the biggest bands during the late 1940s, ‘50s, and ‘60s. Later in his career he owned a small club and recording studio in Hartford, Connecticut, and was always on the lookout for old 78 rpm records and just about any examples of Big Band memorabilia that he could use to decorate his club.

Another constant was a huge pot of coffee and on very rare occasions, a box of stale donuts; a half-hearted attempt to pay tribute to what his grandmother once told him was the very least they could do to properly welcome, "friends, new and old, and neighbors who were gracious enough to enter the little store so as to spend a bit of their very limited time on this earth with her and her priceless reminders of times past."

For some reason, this week’s auction was attracting a full house. By 10:15 A.M. every seat was taken – all five of them, Elizabeth quickly set up a sixth chair and three people were leaning against the back wall. For an Albert Froog auction – this was considered a mob scene.

Elizabeth burst into Froog’s office at 10:22 declaring excitedly in her heavy accent, It’s like New Year’s eves in Times Square out there, Buss. There must be hundreds of pipples waiting for the auction so it should to begin.

Froog put down a competitor’s catalogue, slowly removed his reading glasses and stared angrily up at Elizabeth. "How many times do I have to tell you to knock and wait to be invited in before you burst into my office, Elizabeth?"

But Buss –

Don’t ‘but boss’ me, Elizabeth.

But Buss, the room it is packed with pipples. I never seen so many pipples in there at the same time, and there are more pipples outside on the sidewalks waiting for to come in.

Clearly annoyed, Froog stood up, still glaring at her; he slowly walked past her into the area set aside for the weekly auction. He took a quick look around, nodded good morning to Howard, and returned to his office. As usual, he sneered, "you have grossly exaggerated the situation. There are about ten people in there, nowhere near the ‘hundreds of pipples,’" he said, mockingly.

So when was last times we had ten pipples in there? she quickly responded. You wants I should make another pot of hotted coffee?

I already put almost a full pot left over from Friday out there. When it is gone, it is gone. Who do you think I am, Starbucks? Froog screamed, Now, get back in there and make sure no one steals anything.

At precisely 10:30, Froog entered the small stuffy room holding a cup of freshly brewed coffee. By now there were 12 people in the small space, waiting for the auction to begin. He recognized one or two from previous auctions. He did not think any of the others had ever been there before – many of the new people looked like grotesquely bloated football players – tall, wide shouldered, muscular, and noticeably disinterested in the goings on. He squeezed past two of them, walked to the rear of the room, and carefully set his coffee cup down on the floor next to him. One quick look around, then he noisily cleared his voice, bringing a hush to the room. Welcome one and all to my weekly auction, he began. Once again, I have carefully selected a series of precious collectibles, hidden treasures, objet d’art and one of a kind reminders of times past for you to snap up at bargain prices.

He held up the first item, a bugle he said dated back to the 1920s and began his pitch. It is believed that Old Satchmo himself played this rare instrument on the very first record he ever made. Even though there were three or four times more people attending the auction this Sunday morning than any Sunday morning in recent memory, he could not get anyone interested in this or any of the first few items he presented. His best chance for a buyer for the bugle would have been Howard Hill, but Howard knew Satchmo and could clearly see that this was not a 1920’s bugle. Finally, Froog reached out to Elizabeth and was handed the next item, a 1928 government issued permit to legally produce alcohol during Prohibition. The document, originally given to a Michigan manufacturer of vanilla, was encased in a thick and crudely constructed wooden frame. The glass over the document was dirty and had a hairline crack running along the left side.

I know that you are going to love this next item, he said with a broad grin. It is a very rare and highly prized document from the prohibition era – 1920s America. This, he said proudly, "is one of the few surviving official Registry of Stills certificates. Look at this little beauty, he said, holding the piece high above his head and slowly moving it from side to side, in near mint condition, I should look this good when I am as old as this precious document. He waited for laughs. When none came he just moved on, It has all of the necessary official signatures and government seals and has been certified to be 100% authentic by yours truly."

He stopped speaking to try to gauge the item’s reception, and then said, "This was issued to a Michigan company, on November 5, 1928, giving them legal permission to process alcohol for their primary business – the manufacture of food grade vanilla flavoring. In 1919 the United States federal government declared the manufacturing of alcohol to be illegal with very few exceptions. This was one of those rare exceptions; what am I bid for this unique hidden treasure and prized memento of early twentieth century America?"

There was some shuffling among the attendees but no verbal response.

Oh, come on, he chided, this would look great on any wall in your home or as a conversation starter for gatherings of friends and family or anywhere you can think of. Who will start the bidding off? He gave it the widest grin he could and said, Do I hear $2.00?

Nothing; no movement; the sign of death for any auctioneer – there was not a raised hand in the room.

He looked around, clearly disappointed, Come on, $2.00. Do I hear $2.00?

Howard Hill raised his hand, I’ll bid $2.00, he said meekly.

Up until the moment Froog decided to include it in today’s auction, the permit was just something he had been using to prop open his small office window and had the dents and deep scratches on the frame to prove it. Froog was about to bang the gavel down to insure a two dollar windfall, but, before he could make the sale final an older lady, with a dark shawl covering most of her face yelled out, I will bid $5.00.

Howard Hill stared at the older woman. He fished through his pockets and scooped up a handful of small change. He quietly added up the total and defiantly yelled out, $5.37."

The old woman countered with, $5.75.

Howard dug deeper into his pocket and screamed out, $5.77.

I’ll bid $5.87, the older woman said defiantly.

Froog looked around and said, Do I hear $6.00?

A middle aged man leaning against the wall slowly removed his dark glasses, wiped his forehead with a checkered hanky, rolled his eyes upward, and said with contempt, $500.

A hush fell over the room as everyone turned to look at the new bidder.

Froog couldn’t believe his ears. I beg your pardon, he finally said in disbelief.

The man stepped forward and, emphasizing each word, said, I. Will. Give. You. Five. Hundred. Dollars. Cash. For that item.

Without missing a beat, Froog looked around the room. Do I hear six hundred dollars?"

Howard Hill jumped up, waved his hand, wildly, Albert, Albert, you know me, I have been coming here for a very long time – can I place a bid on credit? You know I am good for any amount I commit to pay.

Albert looked at Hill and gave him a friendly smile, I’m really sorry, Howard, but there are rules and unfortunately, even though I do know you and yes, you are definitely good for any commitment you make, bids have to be paid, in full, at the time of the sale.

Hill sat down, clearly upset.

The older woman who had started the bidding war had a portable phone against her ear and cleared her throat as she said, $1,000.

So, the previous high bidder said, Someone has come to life. Okay, I will bid $5,000.

With the phone held closely to her ear, the woman raised her hand and said, $30,000.

The man glared at the old woman, and said, $50,000. The older woman, listened intently to the voice on the other end of the phone, then put the portable phone into her handbag and shouted, $75,000.

The room went silent. The man cleared his throat and then said, I bid $100,000. Then, looking straight at the older woman he yelled, Beat that, you old bag.

Froog was speechless; he stood with his mouth open, unable to make a sound. Elizabeth walked over to him and whispered, Say something, Buss.

Froog pushed her away, bent down, grabbed his cup and took a large gulp.

Well, it looks like I just bought the item, the man said, arrogantly.

Not so fast, the elderly woman yelled back, taking the phone out of her purse as she said, I need to make a phone call.

Forget it, the man growled. I made the high bid, you want to bid higher, bid higher, but if you don’t or can’t then this item is now mine. He waited for a response and when none came, he smiled and said, Then it is a done deal!

The woman quickly stood and in clear and measured tones said, It isn’t a ‘done’ anything until he bangs down the gavel and he hasn’t banged down the gavel – yet! Then, looking at Froog she said, I insist that you permit me to make a phone call."

Froog looked bewildered, almost shell-shocked. He stared at the woman then the man then back again to the woman. Okay, he said, one call, but make it a quick one.

Hey, the man yelled, what kind of place are you running here? He held up a huge roll of bills, I have $100,000 in cash here. I bid fair and square, no one bid higher, so it is mine.

Who says so? the woman yelled.

This says so! he responded, waving the roll of money at her.

Hey, Froog said defiantly, trying to recapture control of the runaway train that today’s auction was quickly becoming; "This is my store and my item and my auction. I make the rules here and I say that she gets to make a phone call. Got it?"

The man gave the old woman an icy glare, stuffed the roll of money back into his pocket, then pointing his finger at Froog he said, "Okay, I got it! She gets to call because you say so but now I get to walk, because I say so." With that he stormed out of the room.

Elizabeth ran after him.

The woman sat down and with a broad smile said, If you do not mind, I would like to see this item up close. Please pass it down to me for a moment.

Froog handed the piece to one of the people in the front row who passed it on to the old woman.

The woman pushed her glasses up onto her forehead and brought the item close to her eyes, examined both the front and the back, and then seemed to be sniffing around the outer edges of the frame. She handed the piece back towards Froog and said, Since that rude man walked out I guess the previous highest bid stands – that was mine in the amount of $5.87, but given the electricity now in this room I will raise that to an even $10.00 – five times your initial opening bid request.

But your last bid was $75,000, Froog stammered.

We are all adults here, she countered. "I think he was just a plant to push the bidding up. I am willing to go much higher than the $5.87 bid which was the one to beat before that man… or I should say, your plant, first spoke up. Perhaps just because I have class and a sense of right and wrong I will generously bid $10.00 - take it… or leave it."

Froog reached down again for his coffee cup and drank it all down in a single gulp. He wiped away the sweat forming on his forehead with a handful of tissues he grabbed from under the podium and said,